


Like a Rat in a Trap

by This-Is-Not-Overwatch-Fanfic (Hobbitfing)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Roadhog is a berserker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 20:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8259076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitfing/pseuds/This-Is-Not-Overwatch-Fanfic
Summary: Junkrat is caught, but they aren't after him. It's Roadhog they want to punish.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story has the same headcanon (it's pretty much canon, I think?) as [Just Words](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8219800), that Roadhog was involved in the destruction of the Omnium and the subsequent irradiation of the Outback, _but_ in this story Junkrat doesn't know.

It was strange—Junkrat had lived almost 23 years on his own just fine. He'd had a bodyguard for barely more than six months, and he already felt a creeping sense of dread as he watched Roadhog speed off in a cloud of dust and a roar more felt than heard—explosions took their toll on one's hearing, after all. They needed supplies, badly, and it wasn't exactly safe for Junkrat to enter any of the small Outback Junker towns or encampments. They were isolated—and insular—but word spread quickly when money was involved, especially _real_ money, not just scrap. Junkrat's face was known from Tennant Creek to the ruins of Coober Pedy and beyond. Roadhog's was, too, but they'd managed to keep many people from finding out they were travelling together—or at least staying alive long enough to tell anyone else. As far as most denizens of the Outback were aware, Roadhog was just another man chasing Jamison Fawkes.

Junkrat knew it only made sense—Roadhog went into town while he, Junkrat, had to wait out in the stupid, boring old bush and he couldn't even make any _explosions_ because that would draw attention—but that didn't mean he had to like it. He didn't. He hated it. He hated everything: the slowly settling cloud of dust Hog's hog had left behind, the colourless sky, the colourless sand, and _that shrub in particular_. He wanted to blow it up, blow it _all_ up (but especially the shrub) and his fingers were twitchy and restless with the effort of not digging through his more explosive supplies.

Again came the rumbling of a vehicle and he perked up at first, but soon it became clear that it wasn't Roadie's familiar hog, but an actual truck, rare as they were, and the back was packed with people.

At Roadhog's insistence, they'd thoroughly scouted the area, looking for possible ambush sites and hiding places. Muttering to himself, Junkrat scrambled down a small hill and into the cracked, dried-up remains of a billabong. A tree had stood near it at some point, its carcass long since dragged away to be used for firewood or building, but its roots remained, extending a few feet into where the water had been, leaving a small hollow that wasn't easy to see from above, and with dangling roots as additional cover and to break up the Junker's outline. It was cool inside, at least, but Junkrat's already restless, anxious mood wasn't improved by hiding and skulking like well…a rat…without being able to see anyone approaching, and fuck maybe Hoggie was right and he should've taken better care of his ears, but nothing to be done for it now.

He couldn't hear much of what they were saying, only that they were shouting to each other and stomping about. He could definitely feel them running above him. Dust fell on his head, into his eyes and nostrils, and he had to fight back a sneeze. They were searching the area thoroughly and it didn't take more than a few minutes for one of them to grab his prosthetic leg and pull him bodily out of his little hiding place.

Junkrat screamed, first in fear and then, in quick succession, anger. He yelled for Roadhog, a little surprised at himself how automatic it had already become to call on his bodyguard for help, but he _wasn't here_ , wasn't anywhere close, dammit, not when he r _eally fucking needed his body guarded_. Fuck. He was on his own, and these Junkers weren't playing around. The one who'd grabbed him shouted, and within moments they were all on him, bristling with weapons and grim-faced.

He kicked wildly, with his free, organic leg, and his more powerful prosthetic one, bending and twisting his long body like a lamprey as he fought to get free. He'd taken off most of his gear because of the heat, and it was lying in an oh-so-helpful pile where Roadhog'd left him, so he didn't even have any bombs to defend himself. 'course, he'd probably just blow himself up too, but at least he'd take some of them with him, and it'd surely be better than whatever they had in store for him.

With a few heavy blows, the joint in his prosthetic knee was destroyed and half of the limb fell away uselessly. The arm was next; this one was treated just as painfully as one of the junkers smashed the elbow right against the stump of his arm and another one pulled until the delicate innards of the prosthetic gave way and tore.

After pulling him apart like a doll, three of them carried the struggling, screaming man towards the remains of the burnt out house that him and Roadhog had been stashing their supplies in.   "Where's Mako?" One of the older junkers grabbed Rat's jaw to get his attention.

Still shaking with a combination of rage, terror and grief over losing his limbs, mind racing in useless little circles, it took Junkrat a moment to focus, to understand the question. He laughed, quirking an eyebrow. "M-Mako?" He coughed; they'd been none too gentle with the rest of him, and he spat a little blood, taking the opportunity to think. They were looking for Roadhog, not for him? This was wrong, all wrong. Not that he wanted these fuckers after Hoggie either, but he was the one with a treasure everyone wanted, dammit! He'd been all set to deny the existence of any such thing, and then they'd asked about _Mako_. Maybe Roadhog's former employers had gotten wind of their enforcer's defection and'd sent these Junkers after him. "Dunno who you're talking about, mate."

Roadhog would get back. He'd get back any minute, and he'd see that Junkrat wasn't there, and he'd eventually realize he hadn't just wandered off, and he'd check the places he'd told Junkrat to hide and figure out he'd been taken and then he'd _find_ him and kill all of them and then he'd show Junkrat all the lovely things he'd gotten them in town, including new prosthetics that fit perfectly.

Junkrat squeezed his eyes shut, tight, just for an instant, fixing that one thought in his brain— _Roadhog would find him_.

***

Roadhog saw fresh tire tracks on his way back and immediately knew something was wrong. He quieted his motorcycle and began to walk it back. The element of surprise would be better for a big vehicle like that. There was likely to be a group of people and though Hog was capable of taking out a lot of people, it would be easier if they didn't hear him coming.

There was a truck not far from their little shelter and he could see a fire burning out behind the ruins, something Rat had been told not to do under any circumstances. There was a group of people out there, around the fire. Someone had found him. They'd found Junkrat at the only time he was alone and undefended. Had they been waiting for him to leave? Where was Rat?

Hog barrelled in through the door-less entryway hoping to find some of Rat's bombs still untouched, but instead he found a stranger just inside. It was hardly anything to grab him around the neck and squeeze until he broke. There was a thumping sound and he looked up from the corpse in his hand to see Rat swinging from one of the few sturdy wooden beams left in the place. They'd hanged him. Hog felt frozen for a long time, unsure if any time passed or not, until the past snapped back into the present and he grabbed Rat, hoisting him up to rest on his hip like a tired child. Reaching up, he struggled with the wire wrapped around Rat's throat but he couldn't get his fingers under it. Rat wasn't breathing, but his limbs were still thrashing.

After an eternally long struggle with the wire, Hog reached up to the beam and pulled down with all his weight. It splintered enough that he could tease the wire free from the shattered wood and lower Rat. He still couldn't loosen the wire and struggled with it until he grabbed a large splinter and got it between the wire and Rat's skin. It left red scratches on both of them, but the wire was free and Roadhog pulled it completely off, throwing it away.   "Rat," Hog tried to check for a pulse but wasn't finding anything. He pulled off his mask and put it over Rat's, taking out a canister of Hogdrogen and affixing it to the front. The mask was too big to fit on Rat's skinny face, but hopefully the fumes would help. If he could even breathe.

Rat didn't stir, and the sounds of the people outside became overwhelmingly loud. Hog stood, grabbing his hook and heading outside.

***

Pain and haze and they were cutting off his limbs again, only  _all_ of them this time, including his head and…!

All he could see was red, and they must've already gotten his head off, because he couldn't see, and it hurt, oh fucking hell it hurt, a tight band around his neck where they must've chopped with what felt like a dull axe or maybe a screwdriver, tiny, all-consuming bolts of pain shooting from the top of his skull to the base of his throat. His tongue felt like it had been torn out, left in the sun for a few days, and shoved back in. He coughed, moaning at the pain it sent tearing through his throat.

He felt something far away, so distant he wasn't sure it was there at all. His foot. He could feel his foot, so it was still attached, which meant his _leg_ was still attached, and so was his body, and so was his head—probably. Barely. If they hadn't gotten it all the way off, they'd given it a good try.

He kicked his foot, flexing and relaxing the reluctant muscles. His foot was working. Almost. Mostly. Screwing up his face in concentration, he worked his way higher. Calf next, and ohhh that hurt, but in a stubborn, victorious way—it hurt, and that meant he was still alive. Thigh. He twisted, rolling and flopping awkwardly onto his side. Fuck, his throat hurt, and he would've done just about anything for some water, especially if it just poured into his mouth and he didn't have to move any more, possibly never again, but how likely was that to happen?

Everything went white, and then black, stars shooting through his vision. He watched them, zinging past like fireworks, whistling as they went, and then he could see. Not much worth looking at, just the burnt-out shell of a building, like hundreds—thousands—Junkrat'd seen before. He preferred the lights, to be truthful, but he'd take what he could get.

His whole body ached like he'd been pummeled by Roadhog and then driven over by his motorcycle, but he could feel everything—well, everything he'd been able to feel last time he could remember, anyway—so that was something.

He rolled again, and now he was on his side. There was something big and black and still beside him. A whale carcass. Why was he in a shack next to a whale carcass with his throat on fire?

No, not a carcass, or at least not a whale.

One more roll and he was on his front. Grunting with effort, he got himself onto his knees and the stump of his elbow and crawled.

His first word came out in a horrible rasping gurgle that left his eyes watering with pain. He cleared his throat, tears running down his face, then forced himself to clear it again. "Roadie?" His voice was still a croak, the word barely identifiable, so deep that he sounded more like his bodyguard than himself, and at a better time he would've laughed about it. Still would, later, with Roadie, when he figured out what had happened and they were sitting 'round a fire cooking something nice they'd caught, and he'd do his very best Roadhog impression—and be much better at it now. Much more convincing.

His intact leg hit something, and he glanced down, frowning. Roadhog's mask. Now that was all wrong; Hoggie's mask should be _on him_ , not tossed on the ground like trash. "Hoggie?" Louder, more desperate now, no matter that it felt like he was swallowing _poison-barbed wire-shrapnel-fire_ every time he breathed never mind when he spoke, he had to.

Cursing his broken synthetic limbs, he hauled himself farther, until the tips of his organic fingers could just brush the massive swell of Roadhog's gut. It was moving, so that was a good thing (of course, sometimes the whole _world_ seemed to be moving, so that didn't necessarily mean much). Another shuffle closer, and he poked Roadhog's side, shaking him as best he could laying almost flat on his face, rasping and wheezing and trying to say Roadhog's name in every form he could think of—Roadhog, Hoggie, Roadie. Mako.

Roadhog's vision came back slower than his hearing and for awhile all he could do was listen to Junkrat's voice. Everything was dark, or maybe he just couldn't open his eyes anymore.

"Jamie?"

Everything hurt, ached, like he'd run a marathon carrying a sack full of bricks. He had an all-consuming headache and his knuckles felt like he'd been punching something hard with as much force as he had. And somehow, worst of all, he felt the tacky stickiness of blood drying; between his fingers, on his face, his chest. He couldn't remember anything. He'd found Rat, he'd gotten him down… Rat was dead. Had been dead. No, Rat was talking to him.

He cracked open an eye and groaned. "What happened?"

A wild giggle. "Dunno. Hoping you could tell me, actually."

Yeah, that was definitely Rat. Voice sounded rough, but no one else laughed like that. "You okay?"

"I…" Normally Junkrat's automatic response would've been yes; it was in his nature, and letting anyone know you were hurt in the Outback usually proved fatal or at least very unpleasant. "Nah, mate. Don't think so." Each word felt like trying to swallow a razor blade, but they almost sounded like what he was trying to say.

The room stank, the smell hitting him fully and all at once. A familiar reek of blood and piss and shit. Someone had died here. A twitch of his pointed nose. Several someones, probably. But he wasn't one of them, and neither was Hoggie.

Probably.

It took Roadhog a few minutes to fully sit up. He was, as he'd suspected, covered in blood. His hands especially. From a look around the room it was pretty clear he'd fought and killed a few people in here.

"What do you remember?" he asked Rat.

"I remember…" Junkrat hummed tunelessly. "I remember you," he managed a feeble smile, "and I remember you leaving. No—going into town. You were going into town to get—" A painful, wracking cough that shook his whole body and left his digits shaking. "—supplies."

"A truck showed up," Hog prompted after a moment of silence, putting a big hand on Rat's skinny back.

"Right. Right!" Junkrat slid over, pressing his whole body against Roadhog's, and never mind the wet. He was feeling pretty wet himself, but he didn't want to think about that. "A truck…" He closed his eyes, rhythmically kneading his forehead against Hog's side to help his memory. "They were…they were looking for _you_. Not me. _You_ , Hoggie."

Roadhog felt cold again, remembering how they'd strung Rat up for him to find. He absently ran his thumb over the back of Rat's neck, feeling where the wire had dug in.

Rat whimpered, recoiling from the pain, sharp and sudden and immediate rather than dull and aching. "And then…" No matter how hard he thought, banged his head against Hoggie's rib, he just couldn't remember. There was _nothing_ , until he'd woken up, flat on his back with his throat on fire.

"They hanged you," Hog said softly, taking his mask from where it had been forgotten next to them and strapping it back on.

"They…what?"

"They tied a wire around your neck and hung you from that beam," Roadhog pointed. "And let you hang above the ground." He couldn't see Rat's limbs anywhere. They'd have to find and repair them before they could do anything else, but Hog desperately wanted to get them away from this place. Maybe he could convince Rat to repair them on the road.

"Oh. Well, that explains a lot." Rather than looking where Roadhog pointed, Rat pressed his face tighter to Roadhog's girth. It couldn't be too cowardly to hide, just this once. "But _why_?" he asked after a moment's thought, his voice almost a whine. "Doesn't make sense, Roadie. Don't think I told 'em anything." Why would they go straight to killing him, without finding out anything about the treasure? "Did you know them? Why were they looking for you?"

"They were—" Did he lie? Did he come clean? He wasn't sure which would be better for Rat right now. "I did something bad, a long time ago. They wanted to make me suffer for it. They've killed people I cared about like that before."

Junkrat felt a grin spread across his face. "You care about me," he rasped.

"Shut up," Hog said, patting Rat's hair gently.

"'k," Rat agreed, fondly. "Care about you too," he added, after a long silence—long for anyone, not just for Junkrat. "Knew you'd—" a cough "—come back for me. Knew it." Another pause, deep, wheezing breaths. "I'm tired, Hoggie, real tired."

"Me too, but we gotta move," Hog sighed, using some of the debris to help himself stand up. "Stay." He'd gather up all their supplies, load up his bike, salvage what he could of Rat's prosthetics and put Rat in his sidecar. It wouldn't take too long. Even if his head was throbbing. He wobbled a little on his feet and soon realized that beneath the blood of the junkers he'd killed, he had a few injuries of his own. Grabbing another canister of Hogdrogen, he breathed deeply until he felt the familiar, powerful high. He'd take care of Jamie once they were safely away from this mess.

As soon as he judged Roadhog was safely away, wouldn't suddenly remember something and turn back and forcing himself to wait just a few moments longer just in case, Junkrat decided to see what he could see. If Roadhog wouldn't tell him, well, he'd just have to figure it out for himself.

It was dark in the ruined house, only a little light reaching him through the shattered windows and holes in the ceiling, but he could see that there was a fair bit of debris scattered around. He found a length of wood that would do decently well, and with a lot of cursing and maneuvering, managed to get to his foot using his improvised crutch. Turning in a slow circle, he inspected the carnage, giving a low whistle of admiration. "Well, Hoggie mate, you've definitely earned 50% of my treasure," he murmured. Counting bodies—and body parts—he estimated there were at least four dead people in the room. A door had been exploded outward, taking out part of the wall beside it—three guesses what'd done that, and the first two didn't count—and a glance outside showed at least two more dead. "You do care about me. You found me all…" He rubbed his throat, quickly taking his hand away when he felt deep indentations surrounded by raised, puffy swellings in concentric circles around his neck. "Found me and…" He laughed, high and wild and shrill, not caring that it hurt. "Killed 'em all. Every. Last. One."

Leaning heavily on his crutch, the splintered wood digging into his armpit, he kicked an arm out of his way. "Love you, Hoggie."

And then he remembered that he was tired, so he went back into the room where he'd been hung, because he wasn't sure where else to go and that's where Hog'd left him and where he'd be expecting him, and he'd been through enough without finding Rat missing again (and maybe, just maybe, a small part of Rat felt that, if he left the place he'd been told to stay again, something bad would happen). There was nothing to do there, and it was getting darker and darker, and his crutch was terrible and his leg was trembling, so he found the comfiest, least-bloodsoaked bit of floor and curled up.

The crotch of his shorts was wet, just beginning to dry, stiff and ripe, and he laughed again, the sound turning into a sob at the end. There was nothing for it; he didn't fancy laying there naked, and none of his companions'd have anything cleaner.

It took Roadhog longer than he'd expected; it was almost an hour before he'd collected everything useful and packed the sidecar comfortably enough for an injured rat. Finally, he went to collect the Rat himself, and found him asleep in the rubble. Carefully, he picked up the thin man and deposited him in the little nest he'd made in the sidecar. Rat woke briefly when he started the motorcycle, but soon enough the engine rumbling put him back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Our headcanon is that Roadhog had a non-binary spouse and they adopted a child together. Both of them were killed as retaliation for what Roadhog did ahahaha aren't we a happy bunch.


End file.
